The Countess and the Hawk
by 1lastdanceluv
Summary: In the small town of Belle, a Countess meets a Hawk, a hero is born and a different call is made... (Re-Upload)
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** _The Countess and the Hawk_ / **Fandom:** _The Avengers_

**Genre/Type**: AU/Western / **Characters/Pairings:** Natasha/Clint, Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes, Phil Coulson

**Series:** The Marvelous Adventures of the Avengers (#1) / **Rating:** T / **Warnings/Spoilers**: Violence, Implied Sexual Violence, Disturbing Imagery, Bloody Violence, Very Mild Course Language / **Setting:** AU _Avengers_

**A/N**: I don't own The Avengers or any of the characters/pairings in this fic.

The air was cold as the night surrounded Old Belle Town. Smoke and fumes from the nearby factories filled the air, alerting the passing visitor that they were entering the unsavory part of town. Passing carriages fled through the streets as though chased, deputies and soldiers never entered there after dark and every man carried a weapon, just in case. The streets were mostly deserted in this part of town now, and the Old Mill Road's one and only lamp flickered on and off, casting menacing shadows into the already menacing street. Several people lurked in the shadows of the only building that was open and lit up this time of night, the tavern come 'entertainment house'. They watched as a lone figure sauntered down the street. Normally the person would be dead by now, man shot in-between the eyes, woman… well; she would have wished she was dead. But nobody stopped this man. The watchers moved uneasily in the shadows as the man stopped under the lamppost. The light flickered intensely. The man pushed his hat further from his eyes then looked up at the light which promptly died. The watchers retreated into the safe haven of the tavern when he looked their way, lest he decided to take a step toward them. He smiled and lit a cigarette, dropping the match on the ground and grinding it with his boot. He pulled his hat back down over his eyes and leaned against the post, crossing his arms. After a few minutes, a small carriage crawled along, its two drivers armed to the teeth. The carriage continued along until it reached the light pole where it stopped. The back window rolled down slightly, revealing a lone figure.

"Barton. You got my message?"

"I'm here aren't I?" Barton said to the figure. "What do you want? You know I don't like being disturbed on Thursdays, I love Thursday."

"I have a job for you."

"You do?" The figure leaned forward, revealing a man dressed in black, with a serious face.

"He does." Barton took one last draw of his cigarette and crushed it into the ground with the heel of his boot.

"Not interested."

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"Whatever it is, Coulson, I'm not interested. I don't do that anymore."

"That's not what I hear. What about Baltimore?"

"The guy insulted Melvin."

"So, you shot a man over a horse?"

"Not just any horse, Coulson. Man's best friend."

"Just hear me out, Clint. SHEILD's not finished with you yet. Just one more job, then you're out." Clint Barton looked slowly up into the face of Coulson.

"One more job, then that's it."

"If that's what you want."

"That's what I want."

"Done. Here's who we want killed. Whichever way you want, only do it by Sunday." Coulson handed Clint a newspaper clipping. Clint took it and walking back to the lamp, kicked it, making the lamp splutter into life. He held it up to the light, squinting.

"You want me to kill a Countess. They're Russian aren't they?"

"Not this one, Barton. This one's different. Dangerous."

"She doesn't look it," Clint said smiling as he studied the picture of Countess Natasha Romanoff, "She can count me any day."

"Just be careful, she's gotten on our radar, Barton. She needs to be taken care of."

"Fine," Clint said turning back to Coulson, "It'll take two days."

"Two?"

"Have you seen her picture, Coulson?" Clint smirked and pulled his hat down further, disappearing into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Countess Natasha Romanoff was on a mission, a brave, daring and dangerous mission: find the perfect dress in time. The Wives of Old Belle Towne Committee's annual fancy dress ball was in two days and she hadn't found it yet. She wandered slowly through Main Street, stopping and looking at several window displays on her way. As she looked at one in particular, she noticed the reflection of several stares of men passing by on the street behind her, looking the infamous Russian Countess up and down. But it was the stare of one man that held her interest. Every window held the image of his face, always on the other side of the street, or in an alley, or behind a corral. But always there, always looking… like a hawk. It wasn't a look of want or appraisal or even curiosity… no, it was the stare that she feared the most: knowledge, understanding… determination. And she didn't like it. She didn't like seeing his face in every window. Not now. Adjusting her hat, she risked a glance behind her. Her shadow looked boldly at her, as if daring her to go something about it. Natasha smiled demurely. The man nodded and tipped his hat, looking at her once again before turning and walking the other way. Who was this man? Natasha had no shortage of enemies, this she was painfully aware. But this man was different and Natasha was determined to find out, one way or another. The sun was beginning to set, and people began scattering this way and that, making their ways indoors, to their carriages and on their way. Always on their ways somewhere. Even here, in the Main Street of town the people were afraid of the dark. Not Natasha, darkness was her friend. Walking briskly the way she came, she reached her carriage where her driver stood, arms folded as he leaned against the carriage door, watching the women walking up and down the street.

"Found any you like?" Natasha asked smiling. He pushed himself off the carriage and onto the footpath.

"None to my taste," He said smirking at Natasha, "Not that I can have anyway."

"Won't they play with you?" She asked playfully. He smirked again, and held out his hand bowing slightly.

"You wanna play?" Natasha smiled and shook her head, taking his outstretched hand, and climbing into her carriage. He shut the door and leaped up to the driver seat.  
"The park, Milady?"

"The park, Bucky."

. . . . . . . . . . .

The park that Bucky referred to was a deserted building on the outskirts of town. It used to be an office for the former Sherriff, before he was shot in the back… several times. It was then left to ruin, until a new Sherriff came to town. But he moved into a bullet-proof house in town, surrounded by guns; after his horse was shot out from under him. Twice. Now, the office, named the Park in memorial of the first Sherriff, was empty, save for a few rats, a table, two chairs and a bed that had seen better days. But Natasha didn't mind. She didn't mind rats and wasn't using the bed anyway. Neither was her visitor, not that he knew it. Several minutes passed, until Natasha heard a horse whinny outside. Natasha took a deep breath and folded her hands in front of her. The driver dismounted and came to the door. A knock sounded and a head appeared soon after.

"There you are my dear. Been waiting long?"

"Not at all, major. Come in." The major smiled and shut the door behind him, looking around as he took off his coat and threw it on a chair.

"I must say, this is an… interesting place for our meeting."

"Suits my needs." Natasha smiled. The major smiled and back and walked towards Natasha.

"You have a good point."

"Would you like to sit down?" The Major took one more step towards Natasha and put his arm around her waist, pulling her towards him.

"That's not-" The major's words were cut off as a trickle of blood came out his mouth, a shocked look clouding his blue eyes as he staggered backwards. His mouth opened and closed before he collapsed to the ground. Natasha walked towards him, wiping her knife on a handkerchief. She kicked the still major's form, smiling.

"Should have sat down."


	3. Chapter 3

Clint Barton sat on Melvin under the shade of a stand of trees, watching the former sheriff's house. He saw the carriage of the Countess pull up, and watched as her ladyship dismounted with the help of her driver who looked nothing like a driver. Too tall, too military like. The carriage then rumbled off, leaving the Countess alone. But not for long. A lone rider approached soon after, a man with military bearing dismounted, smoothing his hair and straightening his jacket, looking to and fro as if being watched. He then went in and not 2 minutes later the Countess appeared again and waited awhile, before the driver returned and the carriage left, but no man appeared. Tugging on his hat, Clint urged Melvin toward the cabin. Dismounting beside the other horse, we went slowly towards the front door; hand on his shooter, wishing he had a bow and arrow instead. The door was partially open and Clint nudged it fully open with his boot. The door creaked open, revealing a dark and dusty one room shack and the bloodied body of the man on the floor. Clint walked toward him and stopping, he kicked him gently. Nothing. Clint kicked harder this time. The body flopped over, revealing the startled looking face of the man. A tiny trickle of dried blood snacked from his mouth and his hand covered a patch of dry blood on his stomach. Clint smiled. So the Countess was an assassin. And a red-head. This was just getting better and better.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Yes sir?"

"I'm Clint Barton to see Mr. Stark."

"Is he expecting you, Mr. Barton?" The butler asked looking Clint up and down with disgust.

"He is."

"Very well," He said sighing, "Come in, sir." Clint followed the butler into the parlor of Stark Mansion, where the butler pointed to an over-sized chair. "Please wait here. And please sir, whatever you do, don't get dirt on the furniture." Clint nodded and watched as the butler walked out of the room, head held way too high for a man so short. Once put of sight, Clint sat on the chair, and put his feet on the table in front of him, smiling and lacing his hands behind his head.

"Barton, what an unpleasant surprise." Tony Stark, oil, railroad and cattle baron, walked into the parlor, a drink in one hand and an expensive cigar in the other. "You do know its Friday right? I love Fridays." Clint smiled and leaned forward.

"I have a favor to ask."

"I don't do business on Fridays."

"You'll want to on this one."

"Not Friday, every second Friday. Every second month." Stark sat down and put his feet on the table that Clint had just vacated. "You should know that by now." He put his cigar in his mouth.

"I didn't think you smoked."

"I don't. It's not lit."

"Not lit?"

"It adds an air of prestige. You should try it. Oh, wait, you don't go for prestige do you? What air is it you go for?" Stark asked waving his hand, "Toughness? General malice? Threatening something or rather?" Stark took a swig of drink.

"Didn't think you…"

"I don't. Air of-"

"Prestige, yeah, yeah, got it." Stark smirked.

"You know what, Barton," Stark said pointing at Clint, "I'll listen because I like you. Old times. Goodish times. You name it: money, women, boots, you could use some you know."

"Women?"

"No, boots."

"I need an invitation."

"Why would I invite you anywhere?"

"Not from you. I need an invitation to the masked ball."

"Masked ball?" Stark laughed, "You dark horse you. Masked ball?"

"Can you do it or not?" Stark shrugged and looked into his glass, swirling the contents around.

"I suppose. If…" Stark said, leaning forward, "You count me in."

"No, deal. I work alone."

"What, the pigeon afraid of a little company?" Stark swallowed the last of his drink.

"Hawkeye. But that's past now, history."

"Sure. Is it a deal?"

"Deal." Clint said shaking Stark's hand.

"Sir," The butler said appearing at the entrance to the parlor, "Mr. Jones is here to see you. In the library sir."

"Thank you Jarvis. Clint, I'll be in contact." Stark got up and walked out, stopping and patting Jarvis on the shoulder, "Oh and by the way, dirt," He said indicating with his head to the table, "All him."


	4. Chapter 4

_Natasha_

It was the night of the masked ball, and Fort Belle was alive with activity. People hustled to and fro, laughing and holding hands, looks of joy and peace in their faces. These were the rich society people, unaware that others starved and died and were killed every day around them. And as Countess Romanoff walked among them, smiling at the upper crust that accepted her as one of their own, she felt sick. She wasn't one of them, never would be. She wasn't a Countess. Not really. That was something from her old life. The one she wanted so badly to forget, to leave behind. To imagine dead. But it wasn't, not really. Try as she might, she couldn't leave her old ways behind. The red followed her everywhere and this man, this strange man that even now, amongst the crowds, watched her, like he was waiting. Damn these Americans and their patience! "You have an admirer." Bucky said, standing next to her. Natasha glanced up at him before turning slightly away and lifting her glass to her lips.

"You noticed?"

"Military?"

"I don't know. But I don't like it."

"Want me to," Bucky said indicating slightly with his head, "You know, take him for a walk?" Natasha smiled. Would she? Yes, she would love Bucky to fix her problem for her, like he'd done so many times before. But this problem was hers. All hers.

_Clint_

"So either you have an unhealthy interest in women who are way beyond you, or she's your next target. Either one, she's in trouble." Clint smirked at Stark.

"That's for me too know-"

"Yeah, yeah, heard it before pigeon man. I can help you know. Me and Steelman." Stark tapped his chest.

"Steelman?" Clint asked looking at Stark, "That's what you're going for, Stark?"

"What, Steelman? No?" Clint shook his head. "And what do you suggest, muscles?"

"I don't know Iron Man?"

"Iron Man?" Stark laughed. "Iron Man? If it wasn't so, so…utterly cool. Wait, that's cool. You might have something there, muscles." Clint shook his head again.

"I've got this Stark." Stark shrugged.

"Fine, but you'd better hurry. I think she's on to you." Clint looked up to see the Countess's driver standing alone in the spot that the Countess had just stood in. He looked at Clint and raised his glass, smiling.

"Damn." Clint swore and hurried as carefully as he could through the crowd. She wasn't getting away. Not this one.

_Natasha_

Leaving the sounds of the party behind her, Natasha made her way to the maze that the commander of the base had made as a distraction for his men and his home-sick wife and where she and Bucky had a pre-planned escape route ready and waiting. She picked up her skirts higher and practically ran towards the maze, looking behind her to make sure she wasn't being followed. Natasha didn't know what had gotten into her. Ever since she first saw that man, things had begun to change within her. Fears about her life, her past, her future began to surface, like a volcano, as if it had been waiting. Questions began to sound in her brain, about her life. All the killing. All the red on her ledger. Was it really her? Was it all real? Bucky had said she could escape it all once. They could escape together; escape all the killing, Russia, the red. But then he changed, or was changed. Like they all were changed. But part of the true Bucky had always remained, and it was him who risked his life to run away with Natasha, away from Russia. But the red and the killing had remained. She couldn't help it. Sometimes she loved it, lived it, for it. Other times she hated it all. Her life, the killings. Bucky hadn't killed since Russia, only once to save Natasha. But he always helped her, helped her through the nightmares and the killings, wiping away the blood when she fell crying into her bed at nights, covered in her constant friend. Now this man had appeared, like an answer to her prayers. She knew he was out to kill her. That much she did know about this stranger. And she welcomed it. The funny thing was, as she hurried to her and Bucky's escape route, she was smiling. She welcomed it.


	5. Chapter 5

Ducking under a low-cut branch, part of Fort Belle's over-growing maze, Natasha winced as the thorny branch ripped a hole in her sleeve. She could feel a trickle of blood running down her arm. But she didn't care. Not anymore. She was almost there. Either to her death or her escape. Either one was freedom to Natasha. One turn to the right then one to the left. Two more to the right and she was there. Ducking one last time and turning to look behind her Natasha arrived at the clearing. "Took you long enough. Take the long way?" Natasha squeezed her eyes shut tight. She wasn't trying to block it all out. Wasn't trying to hide away, imagining that it was all some nasty dream. No, there weren't any dreams left in Natasha Romanoff's world. Only nightmares. And this one was going to end. Right here right now. She smiled as she turned around and faced her shadow, looking into his eyes for the first and last time.

"I like to think of it as the scenic route." He smiled, uncrossing his arms and walking towards Natasha.

"Why are you smiling?" He asked. Natasha shrugged and looked deeper into his eyes. Cold. Calm. Clear. He looked back, his eyes boring into hers, like a drill into the ground. Or a knife into her heart. And he kept on plunging.

"What else is there?" This time he shrugged, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You could scream. But, you're not a screamer are you?" He took a step closer. "No, you're a fighter." Another step, another, until he was almost touching her. "So fight." Natasha smiled again.

"No." He flinched slightly, but never looked away.

"Natasha Romanoff, Countess with the red-hair. And assassin in her spare time. Why aren't you afraid?"

"Of death? I'm not afraid of dying, not anymore. Never was." He tipped his head slightly to the side. His arm tensed at his side. This was it. She was going to die. But even as this man stood before her, ready to strike, Natasha couldn't look away. No, the last thing she'd see before she died wouldn't be death, wouldn't be red or even Bucky. It would be the eyes of her killer.

"You want to die?" Natasha nodded slowly. "You want to die?" He repeated softly. Natasha nodded again, as a single tear trickled down her cheek. Slowly, he lifted his hand. Natasha flinched slightly. But no death came, only a hand as he wiped the tear from her cheek. Natasha caught her breath. "Well Countess, I'm making a different call."


End file.
